The Space Traveler and Starlight

When I see starlight I marvelthe thousands of years it traveledto meet me, before I was evenconceived, and think myselfa sort of time vector—a veryshort one—in the midst of linesthat stretch along farther than Ican imagine. Behind me are thingsevolving which that star’s lightis on its way toward, and each willknow itself the final destination—though the light threads itselfthrough them like a needlepoint:stitches them and me togetherin contemplation of an imageof the past. Tell me, human,what does that make you thinkof time? That light from a starno longer existent on its wayto a creature not yet evolvedcan thread you up; that you, pearl,string along with creatures altogetherlike and unlike you? If you werea space traveler, it would singto you of comfort. If you werea space traveler, you’d call it love.

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When the great poet Maya Angelou died last Wednesday, we learned about it during a conversation about the death penalty. Maybe you learned about it while reading about deadly violence in Ukraine, or the search for the kidnapped girls in Nigeria.

Her death was sad news, to be sure. We don’t think we're the only ones who felt forced to step back from the news and consider the beauty and power of words.

This hour, in memory of Maya Angelou’s spirit, we welcome a group of Connecticut poets into our studio to read their work and try to measure the art and power of poetry.